Parental Instincts
by rosiesbar
Summary: Following on from the previous story involving Trapper and his daughters, this shows another side to the arrangement, on a day when things turn out... a little differently. A story in three chapters. Part 12 of the 'In All Kinds of Weather' series. Hawk/Trap slash.
1. A Lover's Longing

**Boston – November, 1957**

Susie's Café was always busy at lunch time. It was situated on a busy intersection, but in a poor area, and its low prices attracted a lot of footfall between 12 and 2. It was a Saturday, and shop workers and residents alike had come in for a cheap meal and a hot drink, and, for two hours, the place was buzzing.

The man in the corner had been nursing the same cup of coffee throughout that two hour period, and now the crowds were beginning to disperse, he was trying to make his loitering as inconspicuous as possible.

Hawkeye always struggled with these days: when Trapper had his girls, and he was banned from the apartment. It wasn't the boredom that got to him – it was the isolation. That much he'd worked out for himself. He'd had a lot of time to think it over as he'd sat alone on days such as this, and pondering his own thoughts and feelings on the matter filled the hours up. Feeling cut off from this vital aspect of Trapper's life put a strain on their relationship that he didn't even know how to put into words. Was it _jealousy_? Did he not want somebody else sharing time with Trapper, while he was excluded and shoved out into the streets to occupy himself for a few hours? Or was it that he felt hurt that he had been deemed too much of a bad influence to even be introduced to Kathy and Becky? Even as a 'friend' of their father? Hawkeye wasn't possessive by nature, nor did he think of himself as paternal, but, it seemed, he was just enough of each to resent the arrangement.

He glanced at his watch and tried to think of something he could do with himself for another three hours. He'd only had enough money for one cup of coffee, and he'd eked it out as long as he could. The inch or so that remained was now cold, and he was seven cents short for a refill.

Hawkeye was not exactly rolling in cash. His last job had gone south after someone in middle management had let slip that the boss had stooped so low as to hire a 'blue discharge powder puff' and set the entire staff on edge. After that, it had only been a matter of time before Hawkeye's cheeky jokes and flamboyant humour pin-pointed him as the only logical contender. Two guys filed complaints stating he'd made a pass at them, and Hawkeye was swiftly removed from the staff.

Trapper had read his dismissal notice, and the accusations, with a scowl on his face. " _Well, that's bullshit_." He screwed up the letter and tossed it angrily into the fireplace. And then, a moment later, he fixed Hawkeye with a worried look. " _It's bullshit, right? I mean, you didn't_ …"

His eyes widening, Hawkeye recoiled. " _Of_ course _I didn't_!"

The suggestion had stung. He'd tried his best to dismiss it, but the lingering hurt had stayed with him longer than it should, like a papercut that he kept catching. On this occasion, his dismissal was a touchy subject, and when he'd left the apartment that morning, he hadn't even wanted to ask Trapper for money so he could get more than one cup of coffee.

Now, the waitress was approaching his table, and Hawkeye panicked, burying his nose in his cup and hoping he could pretend he was just… savouring it. But then, instead of looming over him, the waitress sat down opposite. "You've been here an awful long time."

Hawkeye gave a nervous laugh, and shot her a grin that he hoped was charming. "I have, haven't I? What can I say? I just like the ambiance!" ' _What ambiance_?' he thought. A group of kids had been playing the same handful of songs over and over again on the jukebox for over an hour, and it was starting to wear on Hawkeye's last nerve.

She glanced at his almost-empty coffee cup. "Can I get you a–"

"No!" Even as he clapped his hand over the top the mug, Hawkeye realised how jumpy he sounded. "Thank you," he corrected himself, "but no." There was a pregnant pause as he realised how ridiculous he probably looked, still pretending like he wasn't just sitting here in order to avoid going outside. "I'm uh… a little short right now."

The waitress rolled her eyes, and stood up. Hawkeye expected to be shown the door, but instead, she returned with a pot of steaming coffee and poured him a refill. "Friends and family discount," she said with a wink. "Bottomless cups of coffee, and unlimited soda."

Hawkeye grinned broadly, relaxing a little. "Oh, I'm your _friend_ am I?" A suggestive tone crept into his voice, but if a little flirtation got him a free coffee, then he wasn't disinclined to give it a go.

She shrugged and raised her arms in a sweeping gesture. "Best friend in the whole joint!"

Laughing, Hawkeye glanced around the diner. The only other people in there on this cold Saturday afternoon were the trio of teenagers squabbling over the jukebox. "Well, seeing as we're friends, I feel I really ought to know your name?"

"Angie."

She held out her hand over the table, and Hawkeye shook it. "Hawkeye."

Her eyebrows migrated north a little. "Say again?"

Chuckling, Hawkeye recited his usual explanation. "It's a nickname. My dad's favourite book while I was growing up was–"

Angie's face lit up. " _Last of the Mohicans_!"

"Yes!"

Hawkeye's heart leapt at the chance to share a little companionship with another human being. He hadn't realised until now how desperately lonely he'd become, barely socialising with anybody except for Trapper and his work colleagues. Now, Angie really _did_ feel like a friend, and they sat and talked about books and parents, and the mobile library that was doing the rounds in her neighbourhood. She poured him another coffee, and one for herself, and he found himself smiling at her. And then, a moment later, her hand brushed against his, and he realised how this must look. He was _flirting_ – and it wasn't for the sake of the coffee.

He sat back, pressing himself against the back of the bench and whipping his hands back from the table. "I'm so sorry! I…" He clasped his hands in his lap, and ducked his head, staring at the table. "Oh god, what am I doing?"

Angie gave a nervous giggle. "I can't say I was complaining…"

"No, I know. I just… God!" Furious with himself, he pressed a hand to his head and slumped miserably in his seat. "I wasn't thinking. I shouldn't be talking to you like this."

Shrugging, Angie gave him a gentle – if slightly disappointed – smile as she, too, removed her hands from the table and put a little polite distance between herself and her customer. "I'm sorry, too. I didn't see a ring on your finger, and I guess I just… assumed."

Feeling twitchy, Hawkeye glanced down at his hands. "I don't wear one." It was something of an explanation, he figured.

"And the way you were sitting here, you struck me as somebody who didn't have any place to go."

Hawkeye paused for a moment – he had to admit she had a point. He frowned and glanced at his watch. "I guess I don't, for another… three hours or so." His declaration was met with a look of curiosity, and he realised that I there was ever a time to divulge even the vaguest detail over the source of his melancholy, it was now. He chose his words carefully. "I'm living with somebody – a divorcee. It's kind of complicated, and… well, there are kids involved. Only… I'm not allowed to see them. So, as long as they're visiting, I'm officially in exile."

The expression on Angie's face said it all. "So you're a step-father and you've never met the kids?"

Her words struck a chord that Hawkeye didn't even know he had within him. It almost _pained_ him. He took a deep breath, his fingers grasping the edge of the Formica table-top. "I, uh…" He shook his head, blinking hard. "I've honestly never thought of it that way. I mean, w-we're not… _married_ or anything." He stumbled over the words, the hairs on the back of his neck prickling. Something about this conversation felt extremely uncomfortable…

Angie, meanwhile, forged on ahead. "Well, married or not, that's what I'd call you!"

Hawkeye blinked. "I guess… you could call me that. Not that I'm involved with them, of course."

"Do you _want_ to be?"

Hawkeye smiled nervously. "That's not an option. I'm uh… I'm not _allowed_. You see, I'm a _magnificent bad influence_ on every level." His quip was met with a look from Angie. "I guess I'd like to, you know. I imagine what it's like sometimes, taking the girls out to museums or to the beach, getting to know them, taking them for ice cream and watching them get hyperactive on sugar!" There was a smile on his face, and he didn't even know how it got there.

Once again, Angie's hand made contact with his, only this time it was comforting, not flirtatious. "For what it's worth, I think you'd be a great step-father."

"That's sweet. Maybe you can give me a reference and see if I can get the job! I'll put your name and your café on my resume." Hawkeye raised his cup to her and sipped his coffee, hoping the topic was done. He didn't want to be dismissive, but even _Trapper_ was having trouble getting access to his children these days. Hawkeye's wish to get involved was little more than a saccharine domestic fantasy.

Angie gave him a sympathetic look. "Couldn't your girlfriend put in a good word for you? Talk things through with her ex?"

And there it was – the sinking feeling Hawkeye had been waiting for. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled, as he waded in with the story he knew he'd be bound to tell sooner or later. "Uh… uh, sh-she doesn't want to rock the boat." The half-lie lingered on his tongue like a bitter flavour, and he thought he might choke. It didn't feel right! He wanted to shout it from the roof-tops and to hell with what anybody thought! But too many years with too many horrific encounters had ruined him. He didn't _want_ the nice waitress to recoil in horror the way the neighbours did! And so, he stuck to his story: "Um, her… ex-husband took our affair pretty badly – you know, in that way the married people have a tendency to do. We're just… trying to keep our heads down so they don't get bitten off by the family court."

"Maybe he just doesn't want another man influencing his kids. Some guys are like that."

Hawkeye frowned into his coffee cup. "I don't think that's the problem…"

"What's your girlfriend like, anyway? She's gotta be worth it all, right?"

Taking a deep breath, Hawkeye breathed in the aroma of his coffee and tried to push away the awkward feeling. "Absolutely," he said. "We've been together almost six years now and I wouldn't change a thing."

"That's sweet." Angie smiled dreamily. "Where did you meet?"

Again, Hawkeye hesitated. As much as the social interaction was nice, he just didn't know how long he could keep this up. Everything felt like a lie. "We served together." It was the minimal response he could give. And then, suddenly, it seemed like the worst possible explanation, like it was bound to be a giveaway. He hastened to give a little more detail. "We were in a MASH unit – that's uh… Mobile Army Surgical Hospital. In Korea. You know, doctors and nurses…"

Angie's brow creased in thought. "I didn't think the Army let married women in.

"They make exceptions sometimes." He heard his voice go up a few tones, the way it did when he was lying. He didn't know why it did that – he was speaking the truth, she couldn't catch him out on that. There had been a married nurse at the 4077th when he'd first arrived – Trapper had dated her for a month or so until she transferred, said it meant they had something in common – so it wasn't a _lie_ as such. Why were his palms sweating?

Damn it! He used to be so _good_ at this. Back when he was single he used to wax creative with his sexual escapades all the time, casually swapping a few names to disguise the gender of the other party so he could tell the story at parties or at work, and it never bothered him! Maybe it was the lack of company lately with whom to share those raucous stories. Maybe it was too many years of having to execute that same technique in serious conversation over his personal life any time the subject came up. Maybe it was because Trapper wasn't just a funny, dirty story or a notch on his bedpost. Hiding in plain sight was all well and good when you didn't have anything – or anyone – significant to be hiding…

"What's her name?"

Hawkeye's breath caught in his throat for a second, and he gulped down a mouthful of coffee. "Carlye…"

He didn't know why he said it – he figured it was just easier to use a familiar name – but he immediately regretted it, and it was too late to come up with anything else. He'd committed to it now, and the ghost of his ex-girlfriend descended upon the conversation.

"That's a pretty name."

"Uh… yeah. Yeah, it is."

This, it turned out, was too close for comfort. What had been a pleasant conversation was now an awkward game of 'Call My Bluff', and Hawkeye didn't have the nerve to play any more. He would have gladly gone back to flirting with the waitress and forgetting all mention of a partner - current or former - but it was too late for that. As the situation stood, he wanted nothing more than to shrink away and vanish into the floor! His pulse quickened, his hand shook. And then, inevitably, his fingers slipped on his coffee cup, and, in his effort to adjust his grip, it fell, shattering onto the floor. Angie leapt to her feet. "Oh, let me get that!"

"I'm so sorry!"

"No, it's quite alright."

Flourishing a dishcloth, Angie set about retrieving the broken crockery. As she did, the jukebox whirred into life once more, and the Platters started blasting through the diner again.

 _'Oh, yes I'm the great pretender, Pretending that I'm doing well. My need is such I pretend too much. I'm lonely but no one can tell.'_

Suddenly, the lyrics felt far, far too personal. Hawkeye squeezed his eyes closed as the kid whose nickel it was began to shriek at his buddy who had clearly muscled in on his choice. He couldn't take it anymore. He scrambled quickly to his feet, stepping around Angie, who was now clearing up the mess he had made.

"Where are you–?"

"I'm sorry, I'm getting under your feet here."

"No you're not! Really!"

"Thanks for the coffee. I have to go."

He patted her affectionately on the shoulder, and bolted for the door, as Angie stared after him and the record played on.

 _'Too real is this feeling of make-believe. Too real when I feel what my heart can't conceal…'_

The words echoed in his head, and Hawkeye dashed out into the cold.

* * *

There was a small park a couple of blocks away from the café, and Hawkeye settled there, sat alone on one park bench as a homeless woman slept on another. The rest of the park was given over to the young and the carefree. Swings, slides and the like were seeing their share of use as the lunchtime family crowd descended upon their little corner of the bustling city. Numerous young women, some with three, four, or even more kids or varying ages, clustered around the little play park with their strollers and baby carriages. Hawkeye couldn't fathom how they did it! He watched one woman carefully settling down with one of her newborn twins for a feed while the other napped, and her older children – three of them, from a boisterous teen to an excitable pre-schooler – set about exhausting themselves on the swings and climbing frames.

He found his mind wandering. Had Trapper done this at some point? Brought the girls to the park and watched and laughed as they had run rings around him? Maybe _this_ park. As he watched the young mothers playing with their kids – laughing with them, scolding them, pressing kisses to skinned knees and bumped heads – he felt painfully, desperately lonely. Angie had been right – he _was_ a step-father. He would have loved to have watched Kathy and Becky playing somewhere like this. Although… he noticed with a sense of discomfort that he was the only man in the entire park. Would they have looked out of place, he wondered, him and Trapper? Two men strolling around the park with two children?

It was all a little academic now, at any rate. Already, Kathy and Becky were a little too old for play parks. Becky was turning all of thirteen today, celebrating her birthday with her father, back at the apartment Hawkeye was officially barred from returning to until five o'clock. Kathy had just started junior high, and the drawings she was bringing over from her art classes were getting pretty damned good in Hawkeye's opinion. Trapper's girls were growing up fast, and he had seen so little of them these past few years.

He was dragged from his reverie by an ear-piercing yell. Glancing over, he noticed that one of the younger children in the play park had tried to climb the wrong way up the slide, and had met with the boots of the kid travelling the other way. Hawkeye leapt to his feet, dashing over to where two bewildered children now lay in a heap on the concrete. The eldest was now nursing a bruised knee and had a hole in his slacks, but was otherwise unscathed. The younger, however, who couldn't have been more than about four, was now wailing loudly. There was blood dripping down his chin from where one of his baby teeth had been knocked loose.

Hawkeye knelt beside him, and the child blinked at him. "It's okay," he said gently, dabbing at the blood with his handkerchief. "It's okay. Let's just find your mommy." Scooping the small boy up in his arms, Hawkeye glanced about for his mother.

He found her soon enough. She came dashing over as quickly as she could. She had a baby in a stroller, and was struggling across the grass from a nearby bench. "What the hell do you think you're–?"

"Oh, hi! It's ok, I was just–"

"What do you think you're doing with my son?!"

"I'm sorry! He fell, and I thought–"

"I _know_ he fell! I saw! I was right there!" She took the child from his arms, wiping his bloody mouth with the sleeve of her cardigan. "It's ok, sweetie!" she cooed softly, in between shooting Hawkeye the dirtiest of looks.

Suddenly, Hawkeye felt hideously guilty. He hadn't meant to alarm her! He was only trying to help! He didn't realize his actions would be perceived as an interference, or even a threat. "No, no! You've got it all wrong," he said weakly. "I'm a doctor, and–"

The young woman glanced at his scruffy clothes and his worn, grubby shoes. "Yeah, _sure_ you are!" she sniffed as she turned to struggle away over the uneven crass, clutching her distraught son to her shoulder.

Swallowing through the wave of nausea that sprung up at her words, Hawkeye turned away, his face flushing. Why did he feel like he'd just been caught lying? He wanted to race back to the apartment and grab his medical diploma and wave it in the air and scream and shout and _prove_ that he was what he said he was! But, instead, he fell silent. Around the park, the atmosphere bristled as heads turned and the other mothers looked suspiciously at the strange man in the ill-fitting clothes who was hanging around the play park. His shoulders slumped and his head bowed, Hawkeye made his way out, his hands shoved in his pockets for warmth, pausing only to drop his last few cents into the mug of change that sat expectantly beside the sleeping homeless woman.

* * *

The day passed miserably, and through a haze of discomfort, much in the same way a hangover might. After hours of wandering the streets, pretending to browse in shops for the sake of the warmth, and kicking cans up and down alleyways, Hawkeye headed for home, footsore and chilled to the bone. He eventually found himself entering the dark, grubby stairwell at seven minutes past five. Maria from apartment 5C was on the payphone in the hall, talking animatedly in Spanish. Her voice dropped to a whisper as Hawkeye moved past, but when he smiled at her, she smiled back. He shrugged theatrically to indicate that he couldn't understand her conversation anyway, and she laughed. It was the most touching, _genuine_ exchange he'd had with another human being all day.

The apartment he and Trapper were currently renting was on the top floor. It was big and draughty and they had neither the furniture to fill it nor the money to heat it. It was always cold, but the view was nice. Hawkeye pushed open the front door.

Trapper didn't react when he came in, and Hawkeye closed the door quietly. "Hey."

He got no reply. Trapper was sitting at the far end of the couch, his chin resting in his hand, gazing out of one of the three large windows that filled much of one wall of their living space. Hawkeye was used to the melancholy that set in for a few hours after the girls visited, and, having shrugged his coat off and tossed it into the corner by the door, Hawkeye sank onto the couch beside him. As he took Trapper's hand in his own and rested his head on his shoulder, he noticed the small store-bought birthday cake that sat untouched on the coffee table, its candle unlit. Hawkeye's face fell, his hand tensing a little around Trapper's.

"They didn't come." Trapper answered the unasked question, and Hawkeye's heart sank.

"Goddamn it…" Hawkeye rose to his feet, practically shaking with rage that had nowhere to go. Adrenaline coursed through his system and he paced the kitchen.

He hated seeing this. It wasn't the first time this had happened: Louise had, over the past year in particular, developed a tendency to cancel at the last minute. Trapper's visitations had continued only at _her_ discretion, and, ever since the courts had first declared this, those visitations had grown further and further apart, as if she was methodically chipping away at his relationship with his daughters piece by piece. At least that was Hawkeye's theory. Trapper was more forgiving – he simply concluded that he was being used as a 'last resort' babysitter, and that his time with the girls was specifically arranged _only_ when it was beneficial to Louise – but then, he had to try and maintain a civil relationship with his ex-wife.

Hawkeye had no such qualms. "That… vicious, manipulative, vindictive… My _God_ , if she'd let me within fifty yards of her without throwing kitchen utensils, I'd give her a piece of my mind!"

Trapper didn't respond. He just stared glumly into the middle distance.

Glancing over at him, Hawkeye noticed the collection of empty beer bottles at the side of the couch. "You been drinking all day?"

"Looks like," Trapper replied with a shrug. "Your ex-wife suddenly screwin' you over on your eldest daughter's birthday kinda… messes with a guy's head." His words were slurred, his eyes unfocussed.

Hawkeye shook his head, screwing his eyes closed. "This is unbelievable. She can't do this!"

Trapper groaned, burying his face in his hands. "Hawk, you know damned well she can do what the fuck she likes, an' I can't do a damned thing about it!"

"You could _try_! Argue the point for once instead of letting her walk all over you!"

Trapper glared at Hawkeye, anger flashing in his eyes. "I ain't _lettin'_ her do anythin'! She just _does_ it."

"And you're sitting back and not even putting up a fight! What _is_ this?! This isn't you!"

"Wha' d'you expect me to _do_ , huh?"

" _Fight_ her, Goddamn it! Instead of sitting here for five hours drinking your body weight in cheap liquor store beer!"

Trapper rose from the couch, his eyes narrowing. "You think I don't fight for my kids?! You think I ain't tried _everythin' I can_ to get her to see reason here!" Trapper gestured emphatically, his hands flying. "An' it hasn't made a damned difference! She _hates me_ , don't you see that?! I _left her for another guy_ , an' now all she sees when she looks at me is a _threat_. An' that ain't gonna change!" Considering the subject closed, he stalked off to retrieve another bottle of beer from the refrigerator.

Hawkeye pondered quietly. "Maybe you're not saying it right."

" _What_?!" The bottle was slammed onto the counter and Trapper wrenched it open with the bottle opener that seemed to have become a permanent accessory to his right hand. The top skittered across the counter and onto the floor.

"You're not so good with words, Trapper. You're a… direct-and-to-the-point kind of guy – blunt, maybe even tactless."

Trapper glowered at him. "Oh I am, am I?"

"Sometimes… yeah."

"Oh, so now it's _my_ fault."

"I'm _not_ saying that!"

Trapper snorted and gestured grandly with his beer bottle. "So you tell me, Hawk! Tell me what that great motor-mouth Hawkeye Pierce would say in these circumstances!" He stepped closer. Hawkeye could smell the alcohol on his breath. "Louise called me up at lunchtime an' told me Becky didn't wanna come round – that she wanted to spend her birthday at a friend's house. An' she told me that Kathy is always cold in the apartment, an' it's makin' her sick."

"They didn't have to come _here_! Trapper, you can't just accept everything she says! You have to _negotiate_!"

"Negotiate _what_?! My eldest daughter _doesn't wanna see me_! She _knows_ I'm livin' with somebody, an' she knows there's somethin' I ain't tellin' her! Hell, there's a chance they even know about _you_! Do you have any idea how much that _terrifies_ me?"

Hawkeye shuddered. He'd never thought of himself as being that much of a dirty little secret, until now. "Can't say as I did, no…"

"They don't _trust_ me, Hawk! My own kids…"

"So, _tell_ them!"

Trapper scoffed. "You're outta your mind." He raised his beer to his lips and knocked it back, downing a third of it in a single gulp. "My daughters can't know about us, Hawk. First reason bein' that Louise'd cut me off in a _second_ if it got back to her. So that's _out._ "

Hawkeye bristled a little. "What's the second reason?"

"I'm done talkin' about this." He turned and stalked off towards the bedroom.

"You're not going to solve this by _sulking_!"

"An' _you're_ not gonna tell me how to raise _my_ kids!"

This was yelled at full volume across the apartment. A second later, the bedroom door was slammed, and Hawkeye found himself alone.

Never in his life had he felt so utterly useless. Trapper didn't deserve this – and _he_ didn't deserve to have it taken out on him! Trapper had been nothing but docile and co-operative to Louise for the past five years, and yet she was _still_ going after him. It wasn't right! It wasn't _fair_! Anger rose up within him, his chest tightening, his hands shaking. What use was he as a partner if he couldn't help? He _had_ to do something. Maybe he couldn't be honest with the woman in the diner, maybe he couldn't help the injured child in the play park, but dealing with unreasonable people was something he _could_ do.

Snatching up the car keys from the coffee table, and grabbing his coat from the corner, Hawkeye Pierce strode out of the apartment with purpose in his step and fire in his eyes.


	2. A Mother's Wrath

The drive to Louise's house wasn't long, and it wasn't complicated, but it had been a long time since Hawkeye had taken this trip. Twice he took a wrong turn, but it allowed him all the more time to reflect on what he had last seen at this particular address, and what he might say when he got there.

His first visit had been... eventful: he had parked up at the side of the road while Trapper went to pick up his belongings. Hawkeye had watched as the resulting row had spilled out into the street. So had Trapper's stuff. Eventually, he'd been forced to go and intervene. That turned out to be the final straw, and Louise had flung the remainder of the boxes out of the front door. It became apparent soon enough that Hawkeye's mere presence was about as soothing as a gallon of petrol is to a raging fire, and so, on all subsequent trips, he had determined to park further down the street.

This time, he pulled up right outside the house.

Trapper's former home was typical of the middle class housing that populated much of Boston: a narrow, brownstone terrace with a modest footprint, but with three storeys to it, plus what appeared to be a basement. He'd gazed through these windows on several occasions in their early years together, always from a distance, sitting in the car, waiting for Trapper to emerge from his brief periods of visitation. It had been a miserable ritual. Eventually, Hawkeye had just started staying home.

The house itself was nothing fancy, but the neighbourhood was desirable and expensive, far beyond anything he and Trapper could hope to afford now. The likes of him weren't welcome here. It felt strange, actually getting _out_ of the car on this particular street. He half expected Louise to emerge from her house at any moment and chase him up the street with a broom. But there was no sign of her. Wiping his clammy hands on his jacket, Hawkeye stepped up to the door of number thirty two and rang the doorbell. His knees were jittery, and his hands shook, but he knew precisely what he was going to say. He wished, however, that he had dressed a little less like he was there to fix the pipes. Hawkeye lived in flannel shirts in the winter, which were only marginally less garish than the Hawaiian ones he favoured in summer. The navy woollen coat he was wearing had been beautiful when it was bought for him five years ago, but it had seen a lot of wear and some harsh winters, and now made him look like he'd just been shipwrecked.

It was all moot now anyway. The door opened and Hawkeye's heart lurched. Suddenly, for the first time in some years, he found himself looking into the eyes of one former Mrs McIntyre.

He took a deep breath, determined to get the first word in. She would yell, undoubtedly, maybe even slam the door in his face. Maybe, on some level, he couldn't blame her, and he tensed for the fight. But instead, she looked him up and down, her brow furrowing. "Can I help you?"

She was softly spoken, polite and genteel, and with an accent that had more than a touch of Brahmin to it. Her manner threw Hawkeye for a second. But then, just as he had realised that she didn't know who he was, recognition crossed her face, and then, a moment later, disgust and fury followed it.

" _What_ are you doing here?! How _dare_ you show your face at this house?!"

She went to slam the door. Hawkeye's hand went out to stop it, his carefully chosen words scattering in a moment of confusion.

"Louise, come on! I just want to talk to you."

She pushed against him, but the wiry former doctor was stronger than he looked, and eventually she stepped back from the door. The look on her face was sheer loathing, and her surrender a bitter defeat rather than a hint of compromise. "What makes you think I want to listen to anything you have to say?"

"Believe me, I wouldn't be here if it wasn't important." He made a calming gesture with both hands, but she continued to glower at him, her glare every bit as icy as the cold November air. "So, are you going to invite me in, or shall we air our dirty laundry in public?"

Wordlessly, Louise stepped aside and ushered him into the hall, he head high, her eyes narrowed.

Hawkeye stepped in.

The house was quiet and neat, its hallway decorated in quaint pastel pink wallpaper with an ornate pattern one might find on fine china. Several family photographs adorned the walls, mostly of Kathy and Becky, and a few of Louise standing next to a man in his late thirties who Hawkeye could only assume was Louise's new beau, but he wasn't about to ask. Trapper was nowhere to be seen in any of them.

"Into the kitchen," Louise ordered him.

Hawkeye didn't know exactly where the kitchen was, so he just followed the hall, glancing into doorways, unable to resist his curiosity.

It was… odd. _This_ was the house Trapper had shared with Louise, before all this started. This was where he had raised his kids, had his meals, spent his weekends. This was the place he had come home to when he was a surgeon; where he was a husband and a father.

The sitting room was bright and airy, a fresh, clean blend of duck egg blues and lemon yellows. On his left, was a cosy study in a pleasant green. Another picture adorned the wall beside the door – a family portrait of Louise and her two girls, and again, with the man standing beside them. The man who wasn't Trapper…

"On your right," Louise commanded, and Hawkeye turned, finding himself in a small but fashionable kitchen. All pinks and oranges with big, modern appliances that must have cost the earth. He ran his hand over a Formica surface, only to have it slapped by the lady of the house as she stepped in beside him, pushing the door to behind them. "You've got some nerve coming here!"

Hawkeye brightened a little. "I do? Oh, great! I pride myself on my nerve! In fact–"

He was cut off as the man from the picture stuck his head around the door. "Lulu, what's going on here? Were we expecting someone?"

Louise sniffed haughtily and tossed her hair back with an air of disdain. "No, we were _not_! Billy, be a darling and take the girls for a ride? Just head downtown for a while – Becky can spend some of her birthday money."

The man – Billy, apparently – eyed Hawkeye suspiciously. "Are you sure?"

Hawkeye smiled his smarmiest smile, folding his arms and gesturing to the woman opposite, who was eyeing him with ill-disguised fury. "She'll fill you in on all the juicy details later."

Steam seemed to come out of Billy's ears. "Who the hell–?"

"Oh, don't you get your tighty whities in a bunch!" Hawkeye leaned casually on the table. "There's _nothing_ for you to worry about. Honest! I'm _very_ happily involved with your good lady's former husband and have no intention of straying." The honesty made him feel like he was flying, and a self-satisfied smirk crossed his face as he watched Billy recoil, his eyes widening, backing out of the room without a further word of protest. Hawkeye could barely keep from laughing as Louise slammed the door. "I think that made him feel better, don't you?"

"How _dare_ you speak to him like that?!"

"Like what? Reassuring him that I'm safe to be left alone with his Mrs, like the decent, trustworthy kind of guy that I am?"

"I mean being so _blatant_."

"You mean he doesn't _know_?"

"Of _course_ he knows."

"So what's the problem?"

Louise hissed at him and raised a finger to her lips. A moment later, footsteps pounded down the stairs, and two young voices could be heard through the door.

"But why have we gotta go out again?"

"Who cares? It's my birthday! I'm gonna get that new sweater we saw in Jordan Marsh!"

"The pink one?"

"What's wrong with pink?"

"Nothing, if you wanna look like a big ol' marshmallow!"

" _I do not_!"

The girls playful bickering faded as Billy ushered them out, and the front door closed. Suddenly, out of nowhere, he found himself painfully aware of Billy's position within the family, and something unpleasant – something approaching envy – simmered in his gut.

Now alone, Louise relaxed a little, folding her arms and scowling at him. "You do realise," she said coolly, "that I could probably have you arrested."

Hawkeye suppressed a shudder. He _didn't_ know that, but it was probably best to play it like he was just the kind of guy who didn't give a damn. "Some things are important enough to be worth the risk."

"So, what was it you wanted?"

Hawkeye snorted. " _Oh_ no! Don't play that game with me. Don't _insult_ me by pretending you don't know _exactly_ why I demeaned myself by walking into this place!"

Louise merely shrugged, refusing to budge.

Her attitude was sickening, but Hawkeye fought to keep his emotions under control. He had no choice but to be the reasonable one here. Steeling himself, he took a step forward. He spoke clearly, and evenly, and, despite how he was feeling, without malice: "Trapper was supposed to see his kids today. I got home just now and found out you cancelled on him. _Again_."

Another airy shrug. "Something came up."

" _Bullshit_."

Louise pulled herself up to her full height – which was the best part of six foot, even without heels, and she met Hawkeye eye to eye. "You use that language with me again, and this conversation ends." Her tone was soft, her voice eloquent, but her meaning was as subtle as a breeze block to the kidneys.

Hawkeye took a deep breath. So much for being reasonable. "I'm sorry…" The apology felt forced. He hoped it didn't sound it. "I _don't_ like seeing Trapper upset. You can understand that, can't you? You were _married_ to the guy once, right? You remember what it's like giving a crap about how he feels, what he thinks?" Louise wrinkled her nose and folded her arms, but gave no reply. Hawkeye pressed on: "He's been looking forward to this day for _weeks_! He bought a cake, he bought gifts… and we're not exactly rolling in cash reserves right now! Do you have any idea what you're doing to him? Do you _care_? And even if _you_ don't, those girls deserve to see their dad!"

Giving another shrug, Louise shook her head haughtily. "The girls didn't want to go." She folded her arms once more. "That apartment is cold and damp. Kathy has asthma. The flu's starting to go around, and I don't want–"

"Who's to say they have to go to the apartment?" Hawkeye couldn't help but smile as he wheeled out his argument like a work of art. "There's a _beautiful_ park just down the street – or he could take them downtown, go shopping! He could buy Becky the pink sweater that Kathy thinks makes her looks like a marshmallow! Whatever they want, he'll do it! Come on…"

"I'm their _mother_. My decision is _not_ open for discussion – not from my ex-husband, and _certainly_ not from you!"

Hawkeye couldn't keep the smart-aleck smile off his face. "Oh, so you admit it was _your_ decision, and _not_ theirs?"

If Louise was remotely embarrassed by being caught out, it didn't show. "What do you expect me to do? _Every time_ they go to that apartment of yours they start _asking questions_."

" _Questions_? Well, god forbid children ask _questions_. Next they might start _learning_ , and _thinking_ , expanding their horizons, broadening their minds! And we couldn't have _that_!" Hawkeye's palm slammed onto the counter, a little too loud, a little too hard.

Louise's lip curled into a sneer. "There were _pictures_ of you on the bookcase in that… squalid studio you call a home."

Hawkeye rolled his eyes. "Oh my god, _photographs_ of me in my own apartment! Unbelievable! Anybody would think I _lived_ there!"

"I don't want them knowing what he… gets up to with _you_!" Louise's hands clasped primly in front of her, and she shuddered.

"Louise, they're holiday snaps! Pictures of us on a beach Maine, no different to ones of you and… Billy that you have out there! We're not decorating our living room with intimate Polaroids of our love life, if _that's_ what you're thinking!"

Louise gawped at him. "Don't be so disgusting!"

Exasperated, Hawkeye ran a hand through his hair. "Okay, look. We'll… we'll find a way to handle it. The two of you, or all three of us, or four – hell, bring Billy with you if you want, we can make it a doubles match – can all sit down and concoct a nice, acceptable, heterosexual cover story for me and Trapper living together! We can tell them I'm his best friend. His roomie. His moral support in coping with the never-ending pain of losing you, the love of his life! That he never got over you and he's living with his old war buddy, two confirmed old bachelors for all eternity. However you want to play it!" He gave a shrug and slouched against the counter. "I don't expect you to understand this, but this is actually quite _painful_ for me. I don't _enjoy_ erasing my own personal life every time the subject comes up in casual conversation! If you ever wanted to exact petty revenge on me, this is your chance."

"You think I'm shallow enough to do that?"

"I think you're shallow enough to cut a man off from his children because you're still bitter over your divorce." He immediately regretted that, and wished he could bite the words back. "I'm sorry. That was… uncalled for. You're right, this isn't about you and me. This is about Trapper, and the relationship he has with those girls – or _should_ have – because this is _killing_ him. And I'm asking you – _begging_ you – to just _let him see them_ once in a while!"

Louise sniffed haughtily. "They see him as often as they care to."

"As _they_ care to, or _you_ care to _suggest_?" Louise didn't rise to the bait. Hawkeye changed his tack, his voice softening. "Louise… let me tell you something: I lost my mother when I was ten years old. The same age your youngest is now."

"Kathy's _eleven_."

Hawkeye winced, but smiled contritely. "My mistake… The point I'm trying to make is that… it was the most painful thing that ever happened to me, and that's saying a lot if you knew what we've gone through these past few years! Now, I don't pretend to know what it's like to have your parents split up, but I do know what it's like to _lose_ one! The last few years have been tough on all of you, I don't doubt that, but Trapper still here, desperate to be involved in their lives! It seems _crazy_ to put them through any more loss than they have already! So, whatever needs to be done to… reassure you, it has to happen – you _have_ to work with us on this!"

Louise huffed angrily and looked away. " _Work_ with you? I can't even stand to be in a _room_ with you… or him!"

Hawkeye's grip tightened on the counter, and his knuckles turned white. "I can't believe you! Those girls _need_ their father."

"They _have_ a father."

"What, Billy?" Hawkeye gave a thin smile and tried very hard not to get angry. "I'm sure he's a _great_ step-dad, but you can't just cut Trapper out of their lives and… and plug the hole with whichever clean-cut Beacon Hill private financier happened to take your fancy! Trapper's their _dad_ – he's been there from the start, he has a bond that I couldn't _begin_ to comprehend… and he's a _good_ father!"

" _That man_ is _not_ their father." Louise's eyes narrowed and her head whipped up to glare at Hawkeye at close quarters.

Hawkeye, unmoving, stared right back. "Well, _that's_ going to be news to Trapper. _And_ to the family courts if _that's_ the angle you want to take up."

"That's _not_ what I meant! And you know it!" Louise paced towards him, her hands clenched at her sides in furious, shaking fists. "Let me tell you this!" Her voice was an ominous, low snarl. "John McIntyre was a loving, decent, respectable man until _you_ came along. He was a wonderful husband, and a loving father, and I mourn his loss every day, because… _that man_ living with _you_ is _not_ the man I married! He is _not_ the father of those girls! You took that wonderful man that I loved, and you _corrupted him_! You put your _diseased_ ideas into his brain and turned him into some kind of _deviant_!"

Hawkeye's hackles rose, and he tried his very best to stop the anger creeping into his voice. "Louise, I hate to break it to you, but I didn't put _any_ ideas in Trapper's head that weren't already there."

"He could have gotten _help_!" Louise turned on him, her eyes wild with fury. "There are psychiatrists, doctors… A friend of mine took her son to hospital for a few months and he turned out _fine_!"

Now it was Hawkeye's turn to shudder with distaste. "Yeah, I know what they do in those hospitals, and if _that's_ your definition of 'help'–"

"There are _cures_ out there, but thanks to you, he was too far gone! _You_ led him down that path because you wanted him for yourself! If anybody robbed my girls of their father, it's _you_!"

Hawkeye was so taken aback, so winded by her words that he actually took a step away. "Now, _wait a minute_ …"

" _You_ took their father, and you took _my_ _husband_ , and now you want to sit and _negotiate_ with me over how I choose to raise what's left of my family?"

She was inches from him now, practically spitting in his face, and Hawkeye could hold back no longer. Her words, unbeknownst to her, had tapped into something that Hawkeye didn't care to think on. And so he didn't think. He spoke. Like always, Hawkeye wielded words like a sword, and he went for the jugular... "Oh, I did, huh?" He stepped close, his eyes meeting hers, equal in height, equal in fury. "You know, I hate to break it to you, but there are a couple of little details you're missing out of this incredibly _inventive_ picture you're painting of me as a home-wrecker and a husband-stealing predator! Firstly, he _wanted_ to come back here and work things out! You remember, picking him up from the airport? In the big white flashy car? Because _I_ sure as hell do! He chose his family over me, there and then, but no – _you_ tossed him out! _You_ made that call, Louise, not him, and you can't blame that one on me! I was in _Maine_!"

"If he thought for a second I'd have him back after what he'd done… What woman could love a husband who–?"

"He wasn't asking you to _love_ him. He was asking for a chance to be a father to his children, just like he's trying to be now! He came back for _them_ , not you!"

"Why, you presumptuous son of a–"

"And secondly, you know as well as I do that 'Trapper' John McIntyre was _never_ a perfect husband! And we're not just talking about the nurses while he was away in Korea! Are we? Because Trapper John was an adulterer _years_ before I ever got _my_ grubby homosexual claws into him! And you _knew damned well_ what he was like! I saw your letters: The suspicions, the accusations – you weren't _stupid_!" Louise's eyes widened in shock, but Hawkeye was too far gone to notice. Six years' worth of resentment and defensive vitriol were coursing through him with unstoppable force, and he couldn't hold back now even if he'd wanted to. "So either all those women don't do a damned thing to sully your view of him as Husband of the Year, or you have an _extremely_ selective memory of your marriage!"

"How _dare_ you come in here and say these things! You don't know the first thing about–"

"Oh, I know _lots_ of things! We do _talk_ you know! It's this interesting hobby we have when we're not having disgusting sex and taking Polaroids of ourselves. You think Trapper never _told_ me anything about his relationship with you? The accusations, the affairs, the almost-separations that never happened? You think he never _shared_ this kind of thing? Your marriage was _over_ , probably before your husband even landed in Korea! You _know_ that, and so do I! And _now_ you think you can blame it all on me just because _this_ was the one affair you weren't able to forgive and sweep under the rug! And as if that's not enough, you're using your _kids_ as punishment!"

"I'm doing no such thing! I'm _protecting_ them!"

"From _what_? You know damned well Trapper isn't a threat to those girls any more than your Billy is!" Hawkeye waved his finger in the direction of the hallway. "You're just _using_ this to get back at your ex-husband! Turning your own children into a weapon! Holding this over his head, looking for any excuse to cut him off, just because you're angry and bitter and you know you _can_! And you _know_ he can't fight back, not with his record! It's… it's _spiteful_! It's petty and it's calculating and it's… it's _disgusting_ , that's what it is!"

Louise quirked an eyebrow at him. " _You're_ calling _my behaviour_ disgusting?"

Hawkeye leaned in close, almost nose to nose. "I wouldn't even take a Polaroid of it."

For the first time, Louise offered no counter argument. She did not shout or sneer or protest. She simply nodded. "You're right."

Hawkeye couldn't quite believe what he was hearing. "I am?"

"Yes, absolutely." She looked away for a moment, gazing through the window into the back yard. "You're quite right. I _am_ still angry with John over his… betrayal, and yes, I _am_ holding custody rights over his head in the full knowledge that I have every legal right to, and I _have_ been looking for any reason to decrease, limit, or indeed _terminate_ his contact with my children." She looked at Hawkeye, her face relaxed, almost serene, all trace of anger gone.

Hawkeye was stunned into silence. He stared at the woman standing before him, with her expensive clothes and her perfect hair. He almost couldn't believe it – he'd taken on the ex-wife and _won_. "I have to say, I appreciate your honesty."

Louise smiled, and nodded. "And I appreciate your giving me a reason."

Hawkeye froze. A shiver crept up his spine. "I… what?"

"Oh, my lawyer made it perfectly clear when John signed the divorce papers. The ruling stated quite explicitly that visitation was at _my_ discretion, given John's record, and could be rescinded at any time upon my saying so. And I am hereby _rescinding that right_."

Her words were perfectly enunciated, spoken with the confidence of a woman who had studied law at Dartmouth and headed the debating society at that same Ivy League school, just as Trapper told him she had. And Hawkeye, just like Trapper, didn't have a leg to stand on. His blood ran cold. "Oh, come on, Louise. There's no call for this!"

"Oh, I'd say there is."

"Louise, come _on_! I know I was out of line, but let's not do anything we regret!"

But Louise was on a roll. She's rounded the kitchen table and was coming at him, guns blazing, with the arsenal of an Ivy League debating society at her fingertips. "If I regret _anything_ it's the fact that we've dragged this ridiculous charade out for the past five years instead of giving the girls a clean break! Their father is a _criminal_ and a subversive, and I need no further justification to terminate his contact with my children forthwith! If _his_ lawyer wishes to contest that, then I will be stating that my _pervert_ of an ex-husband sent his male lover to my home to threaten me."

" _Threaten_?! When did I threaten?! I got _angry_ , but…" Hawkeye bit his tongue. "I'm _sorry_! I get carried away, but I didn't… I mean… I'm just trying…" Words failed him. He couldn't think, couldn't speak, could think of no other course of action but to throw himself at this woman's feet and beg for forgiveness. Not for himself, but for Trapper. "He didn't send me!" He'd blurted the words out before he could even think – a desperate attempt to back-pedal his way out of the hole he'd dug himself into. "I swear to God! He was upset, I just wanted to… He doesn't even know I'm _here_!"

"Oh – you mean it wasn't one of those things you _talked_ about before you came here? I know you said you two _love_ to talk about me! It's one of your favourite hobbies…"

"Please don't do this." He was outright begging now. The insult flew over his head. He couldn't care less what she said to him. He just couldn't let this happen.

Louise blinked at him, her mouth a tight, unforgiving frown. "It's done. And you're leaving." With those words, she turned and walked through to the hallway. Hawkeye ran after.

"Can't we just _talk_ about this?!"

"We've talked enough!" Louise sailed down the hallway with her head high, not even glancing back. "I want you out. I have a phone call to make."

"You're calling your lawyer? _Now_?"

"I might. Or I might call your apartment building, tell my ex-husband how you've been _such_ a help in making me see things more clearly – or I might leave it up to _you_ to break the news to him, seeing as you're so _good_ at talking."

"Louise, _stop_! Think about what you're doing! Think about your _kids_!"

"I _am_ thinking about them!" She turned, her face a steely mask of fury and vengeful resolve. "I think about them every minute of every day, because that's what a parent _does_! And if that _disgraceful_ excuse of a man that you live with had even a shred of decency in him, he would have thought of _them_ instead of himself, and kept well away from the likes of _you_!"

" _Please_! I'm sorry! Just listen to me…"

"I've heard enough." Turning away, she unlatched the front door with one perfectly manicured hand, then stepped back and stood calmly, waiting for him to leave. "Now… get out. And if I see either one of you around here again, or if you go anywhere near my daughters, I'll have you arrested for harassment. And anything else they can book you for besides."

"You're kidding!"

"Do I look like I'm kidding?" She fixed him with a stony glare. "I'm counting to five, and then you had better be gone, or else I call the police! _One_!"

Hawkeye merely stared in horror. His mouth opened and closed, his breath caught in his chest, but there were no words left with which to protest. He was done. He put up no further fight. Louise continued to count, and Hawkeye crept meekly towards the door. The word 'five' echoed in the air behind him as he stepped out into the chill of the harsh, New England Winter evening. He shivered. A moment later, the door slammed closed behind him.


	3. A Father's Despair

The drive back to the apartment had never seemed so short. Hawkeye's palms were sweaty against the wheel, his knuckles white, fingers numb with shock – much like the rest of him. He glanced unseeing into the mirror, signalled, and nearly collided with the Cadillac in the next lane. Momentary panic surged in his gut as he swerved back. It was almost a welcome change from the background nausea, which seemed to grow with every yard he covered. For the first time in his life, he drove ten miles under the speed limit, caring not for the angry motorists that charged past him and swore at him through their windows as the rush hour raged around him. When he reached the parking lot around the back of the apartment, he sat in the car for a further ten minutes, watching the time tick by on his wristwatch.

He'd really done it this time, and he knew it. He tried desperately to rehearse a speech in his head, but, time and time again, the words felt flat and weak. How could he make up for this with simple apologies when he knew Trapper's daughters were the one thing more important to him than this relationship; that Trapper had done all he could to fix his loveless marriage for the sake of his children, despite his affair, and now Hawkeye had finally destroyed his family once and for all. The little pocket of guilt he always carried with him – that shame that he'd got involved with a married man – was nothing compared to this. And now he had to go in and face him?

His eyes wandered up to the top floor window of their apartment. The lights were off. It was getting dark now, but there was no homely orange glow to welcome him back tonight. Was Trapper sleeping? Saving on the electric? Out? _Gone_? Would Louise have called by now? Would Trapper know already? Would he be stalking up and down the apartment, lying in wait in the dark so he could… do whatever he felt he had to do in exchange for Hawkeye screwing up his life? Or was she holding off until the next time Trapper tried to arrange a family day out, so she could drop the bombshell with maximum shock value? Would Hawkeye have to break the news himself? Own up to the custodial atrocity he'd just committed?

Too many questions. Too many thoughts.

Despite the cold, his skin prickled with sweat, and he wiped a hand over his face. The panic welling in his chest was unbearable, and he knew if he carried on like this, he wouldn't have the guts to set foot in the door.

And so, in full anticipation of the worst possible outcome, Hawkeye pushed the car door open and stepped out into the cold. The autumnal wind whisked the last of the fallen leaves around his feet, where they crunched under the soles of his boots. The perspiration on his skin chilled him to the core, and he shivered. He crossed the parking lot like a condemned man, his coat clasped around himself with trembling hands.

The interior of the old building wasn't much warmer. He pulled the door closed and rubbed his numb fingers, stepping hesitantly into the stairwell.

It was empty. Maria had gone back to her apartment.

But the phone was not on the hook. Hawkeye drew closer, finding the receiver dangling from the hefty metal casing. He reached out and lifted it up. The earpiece was smashed, as if somebody had flung it against the wall in a rage. The exposed wiring hung loosely from the plastic handset, the tiny metal speaker uttering a weak, crackled excuse for a dial tone.

It was all the proof Hawkeye needed: Louise had called. Trapper knew.

His blood ran cold. Now, there was no going back. Hawkeye dragged himself up the stairwell with painful slowness, step by step. His feet and his heart were heavy, and he had no clue what he would be faced with on the other side of his front door. Would Trapper yell at him? Ignore him? Break down in tears? _Leave_ him?

The thought made him stop dead on the landing.

Oh, God… what if Trapper left? What if he already _had_? What if he couldn't bring himself to spend another day with the man who cost him his children?

No, it wouldn't do to think like that. But as Hawkeye fumbled with the keys for the ancient lock, his hands were trembling. It took him every ounce of strength he had to turn the key in the latch and push.

The door opened.

Hawkeye crept into the apartment, his chest tight and his heart pounding. His blood was rushing in his ears and his insides felt as if he'd been punched in the gut. He scanned the darkened room.

Trapper was sitting exactly where he had been before, hunched over the coffee table with his head in his hands, his expression hidden. Only this time, as Hawkeye drew closer, he looked up, his face an unmoving mask of misery and rage.

Hawkeye took a deep, trembling breath. "Trapper?" His voice sounded pathetic, little more than an appealing whimper. Tears were already welling in his eyes as he crept across the apartment in tiny, hesitant, shuffling steps. He didn't defend his actions; he didn't beg for forgiveness; he just stood there, the very picture of remorse, hoping for the best.

It did him no favours. Trapper stood, never taking his eyes off him, never speaking. With agonising slowness, he drew closer, his eyes dark, his lips twisted into a snarl of fury. Closer still. He _stalked_ , moving with ominous, threatening steps, his hands clenched into fists, swinging at his sides.

Backing away instinctively, Hawkeye retreated to the door. "Trapper, I'm _sorry_! I didn't–"

Still, Trapper glared. Still, he did not speak. Then, at last, he raised one hand, pointing accusingly at Hawkeye as he uttered one simple demand: " _WHAT did you do_?"

Hawkeye swallowed. The accusation hurt, but not half as much as the knowledge that it was justified. Louise might be responsible for the explosion, but he'd been the catalyst. Him and his big mouth. What had he said to her? What _had_ he done? "I don't… I don't know."

" _BULLSHIT_!"

"Trapper, _please_ –"

Closing the rest of the space between them, Trapper moved in, glowering down at Hawkeye from his only fractionally greater height, but from where Hawkeye stood right now it felt lire more. Trapper had a look in his eyes that Hawkeye had only seen on a fraction of occasions, and _never_ directed at him. Never, until now. Trapper spoke again, his voice quiet this time, measured, menacing. "You tell me, Hawk. What did you say to Louise? Huh? What did you say to 'er?"

"There was… we had an argument. It got out of hand. We both… I mean Louise…she was…"

Hawkeye's recollection failed. And Trapper snapped. " _What did you SAY_?! _TELL me what you said_!"

" _I just wanted to help_!"

Letting out an inhuman bellow, Trapper turned away. A second later, his fist hit the wall a couple of feet away. Hawkeye flinched, but in the silence that followed, he found himself hoping that maybe that one swing might have released some of the anger, some of the tension…

"Feel better?" His voice sounded uneasy, even fearful, a hollow attempt at his usual acerbic wit.

Trapper glared at him. He spat his answer: " _Don't talk to me._ Don't even _look_ at me. I don't want _you_ anywhere _near_ me! Understand?!" With those words, he turned and walked away. The sound of the bedroom door slamming behind him shook Hawkeye to his very core.

At last, he released the breath he was holding. It came out shaking, bringing with it the most pathetic whimpering sound he'd ever heard himself make. The sound echoed in the empty apartment, and Hawkeye had to gasp a lungful of air to steady his nerves. He wanted to cry, but at that same moment he felt he had no right. This wasn't his loss – it was Trapper's – and as much as he wanted to curl up in a ball and cry and beg for forgiveness, it just didn't seem right. He _deserved_ this. He deserved whatever Trapper threw at him, and probably more besides!

Burying his head in his hands, Hawkeye forced back the tears he felt he had no right to shed, and dragged himself over to the couch, collapsing into the spot that Trapper had just vacated.

The couch was warm. The tiny birthday cake still sat on the coffee table, a sad little testament in frosting and sponge to Trapper's final ditch attempt to bond with his children – children who he would never see again. Hawkeye was afraid to touch it.

If only he had applied the same kind of hesitancy in other areas of life.

He pulled his hands close to his body, tucking them under his elbows as he held himself, making himself as small as possible. Curled up like that, he could focus himself utterly on his own breathing; the expansion and contraction of his own lungs; the way his ribs spread and separated. A passage from an anatomy textbook ghosted through his head.

He glanced up at the bedroom door, still fighting tears. His questions remained unanswered. Maybe Trapper _would_ leave. And, Hawkeye also had to admit, maybe it was the best thing he could do. Maybe once Hawkeye was out of the picture, Louise would relent in her campaign of revenge and reverse her decision. He could even call her from Maine and give her the good news himself! Maybe, just maybe, he could sacrifice himself to keep Trapper and his kids together…

Only it would never work. He knew well enough – he'd heard her admittance with his own ears – Louise had just been waiting for an excuse. Now he'd given her one, she wasn't about to back down. The damage was done. Irreversible. How foolish was he to even entertain such an idea?

Feeling thoroughly pathetic, he curled up on the couch, kicking off his shoes and tucking himself into a ball. May as well get comfy – he was probably spending the night here. And maybe the next few nights, too.

And then, after that, who could say? Who could even think on such a thing? He'd poured six years of his life into this relationship, and now he it could all blow up in his face because he couldn't keep his stupid mouth shut around Trapper's bitch of an ex-wife, and keep his nose firmly out of family affairs where it didn't belong.

Letting out a long sigh, he pulled one of the flimsy sofa cushions over to rest his head upon, finding the fabric unpleasantly rough against his cheek. The cover had pilled over the years, and the filling smelt of mildew and Trapper's cigarillos. It wasn't pleasant, but Hawkeye rested there anyway. He was exhausted. He hadn't noticed it until he'd laid down, but suddenly the emotional strain of the day weighed heavily upon him, and his eyes began to close.

Hawkeye let them.

He didn't sleep so much as hover on the edge of it for hours, dimly aware of time creeping by, and awakening at the first hint of movement from the next room. His heart jolted him back into wakefulness. The bedroom door opened, and Hawkeye's eyes opened with it.

The apartment was dark. The sun had set while he'd been sleeping, and the only light now was the dim, artificial glow of light pollution from the streetlights below, but Hawkeye could just make out the bedroom door swaying a little as his eyes adjusted to the gloom.

Trapper emerged, slowly. His feet were dragging and he had pulled his robe on over his clothes to ward off the cold. He looked bulky and overstuffed, like a giant yellow teddy bear. It would have been funny, but it wasn't. He didn't flick the light on – instead, he shuffled across the apartment in the dark, drawing closer, sock-clad feet almost silent on the floorboards.

Hawkeye's breath caught in his chest. Trapper's expression was hidden in shadow – Hawkeye couldn't tell if he was going to hug him or scream at him.

As he neared his destination, he did neither. He simply drew to a halt by the couch, and hovered, standing over Hawkeye like a strange, yellow-clad Grim Reaper. Hawkeye pushed himself up, unfolding his long limbs from the cramped foetal position he'd crammed himself into. "Trapper?"

But Trapper didn't speak. He just stood there, staring at the coffee table, and at the cake that sat upon it.

Hawkeye shifted uncomfortably. "Trapper, I–"

Trapper held up a hand to him. "Don't. I don't wanna go into it."

"But…"

"I don't wanna talk about it…"

"Just let me say this!"

"… an' I _don't_ wanna hear you sayin' you're sorry a dozen times over."

" _I didn't mean to_!" The words rushed out of him like he'd been bottling them up from the minute he'd stepped in the front door. They brought with them a rush of tears and despair that he couldn't hold back any longer, like he'd been waiting for Trapper to come back into the room before he let himself grieve. "I don't know that I was thinking! I don't even know what I _said_ , but whatever it was, it was probably _stupid_! And I don't _know_ why I said it, but once I started I couldn't stop it! I'm sorry – I shouldn't have gone there! I thought I could talk some sense into her but all I did was make one spectacular mess of everything!" The words were unstoppable, punctuated with hacking gasps for breath, muffled as he sobbed into his hands. Looking up, tear streaked and appealing, he reached out a hand to Trapper. "Trap? Please, just look at me?"

Trapper was standing right in front of him, his eyes dark and narrowed as he raised his head to stare out of the window, squinting into the darkness. He sighed. "Are you done?"

His words brought another choked sob to Hawkeye's throat. "I _swear_ I didn't mean for it to happen!"

Sniffing and wiping his face on one towelled sleeve, Trapper finally glanced in his direction. "Yeah, well… it happened, there ain't nothin' we can do now, so… let's just…"

It wasn't a reassurance. It wasn't forgiveness. But it wasn't blind fury, nor was it a break-up, and Hawkeye was grateful for small mercies. "What do you want?" he asked weakly. "What can I do? Whatever you want, just name it." Silence. "You could yell at me some more, if you like, or just sit here and cry, if that helps." He gestured to the couch beside him.

Trapper blinked, glancing about himself as his drink-addled brain processed his surroundings. Something was on his mind, clearly, but with his mind being so mired in alcohol, it could be some time before he was able to articulate it. At last, he looked back at Hawkeye. "I've spent all evenin' cryin'," he said. "I got no more tears left in me." Sure enough, a patch of moonlight caught his face, and for just a moment, Hawkeye caught sight of the red circles around his eyes and the dried tear streaks on his cheeks.

Consumed with guilt, Hawkeye reached out for him again, his fingertips snagging on yellow terrycloth, their target just out of reach. "Tell me what I can do to help?"

Trapper stared at him for a moment, thought on it, and then spoke: "You got a light?"

Hawkeye was puzzled, but he wasn't about to question him. He patted his pockets down – a futile gesture, as he had never carried a lighter – then examined the table beside the couch where Trapper kept his cigarillos. His zippo lighter lay there, glinting in the dim light.

Hawkeye picked it up, and handed it over without word.

Under his curious gaze, Trapper knelt at the other side of the coffee table, flipped the lighter open and touched the flame to the candle on top of the little blue birthday cake. The orange glow of the tiny fire lit him up, and his eyes seem to sparkle in the candlelight.

It would have been romantic, under any other circumstances. Candles always reminded Hawkeye of their first date, of hesitant first kisses in a corrugated iron hut, or of that night in his father's house when they'd polished off the wine and tumbled up the stairs together…

The lighter snapped shut, and only now did Trapper deign to join Hawkeye on the couch. He sat, his leg touching Hawkeye's, strangely intimate but not quite feeling close enough to hold or to kiss or to offer any comfort. He just stared, his eyes fixed forward on the dancing flame atop his daughter's birthday cake.

Tentatively, Hawkeye reached out and took his hand. "Trapper? What–?"

"Quiet." Trapper pulled away. "Just… give me a minute, would ya?"

It stung, but Hawkeye understood. He wasn't a part of this – or rather, he hadn't been until he was the final straw that had brought the tentative stalemate between the former husband and wife tumbling down into full blown destruction.

And so they sat, and they watched, Trapper's eyes never moving from the tiny flame. They watched and waited as the candle continued to burn. And burn. And burn… Nothing would stop it; Becky would never be here to blow it out, or to make a wish, or to have a birthday hug from her father. The fire would burn on; and Kathy and Becky would grow older, unwatched by their father. Time pressed forward relentless, and Hawkeye watched as hot wax began to pool in the centre of the cake, melting the frosting. The beautiful design on top began to warp as the icing collapsed. Becky's name, and the words 'happy birthday' swirled together with the wax into a hot, sticky mess that began to sink into the sponge.

The seconds ticked by into minutes. The candle, now shrunk to nothing more than a glob of wax atop a plastic stem, perched in a sticky pool of melted butter icing, began to stutter. And then, at last, with a little plume of smoke, it snuffed itself out, and died.

The apartment was plunged into darkness.

Still they sat, the familiar smell of candlewax and smoke filling the air. Hawkeye didn't dare speak. But then, Trapper stood. Hawkeye watched him, his expression still unreadable in the darkness, but his body language said it all. His chest rose and fell, his shoulders moving with it, and his breath was harsh and laboured.

Hawkeye saw it coming a mile away. He'd seen it a few times now. He was already moving to a safe distance.

At last, Trapper picked up the cake, plate and all, and flung it, full force, at the kitchen wall. The plate shattered. A second later, his foot hit the coffee table, and that too flew across the kitchen, colliding with the stove. The kitchen clock fell from its nail with a rattle. Several cups on the counter toppled into the sink. A plate slid onto the tiles and smashed into shards.

When Hawkeye opened his eyes, Trapper was still trembling in the centre of the living room, panting like a fighter who'd just gone twelve rounds with somebody twice his size. Worried, Hawkeye reached up and snapped the lamp on.

It was like somebody had broken a strange spell, and Trapper turned around, squinting into the lamplight. His temper was gone, channelled, as it usually was, into one mindless act of destruction, and the look he gave Hawkeye was almost a guilty one. He looked across at the mess he'd made, like a child realising he'd committed some terrible transgression that his parents would most likely ground him for.

"Ow," he said. He winced, and Hawkeye glanced down at his sock-clad feet.

"Your foot okay?"

Trapper didn't reply. His face creased, and he curled in on himself, uttering a sound somewhere between a groan of pain and a furious roar. "Shit," he hissed, his hands clenching to fists once more and pounding against his knee. " _Shit_!" But, for the moment at least, he was still, his breathing even, his anger spent.

Now, and only now, did Hawkeye feel it was safe to approach, reaching out and wrapping a gentle hand around his arm. "Easy, Trap." The words were murmured as if he were calming a startled horse, but there was something animalistic in Trapper's rages that he'd never been able to handle any other way. "Come on now. Easy."

Now, at last, Trapper allowed himself to be pulled gently into a hug. His chin sank onto Hawkeye's shoulder, his chest coming to rest against Hawkeye's, and, gradually, its rise and fall slowed to match that of the man in his arms. As his breathing slowly returned to normal, Trapper slowly reciprocated Hawkeye's embrace, wrapping his arms around him. Hawkeye's fingers found their way into Trapper's hair, holding him close, and Trapper's hand raised to gently cup his cheek.

When at last they parted, Trapper glanced curiously at Hawkeye's face.

"What is it?"

Trapper held out a finger, and swiped it, slowly and deliberately, across Hawkeye's cheek. He raised it: a large smear of frosting now adorned the pad of his finger. "You've got frosting on you," he said.

Hawkeye looked at it, and blinked. "Huh," he said. Glancing around, he found the source, and gestured to Trapper's hand. "So do you."

Trapper raised his hand, and found more frosting on his hand and wrist. Sugary blue and white smears across his lower palm and the inside of his arm, even his sleeve. Suddenly, as if from nowhere, a smile appeared on his face. And then, just as suddenly, he _laughed_. He looked up at Hawkeye and somewhere, through his grief and his pain and his fury, he found it within himself to _laugh_. With gentle, childlike curiosity, he swiped the frosting off with his finger and had a taste. "It's _good_ ," he said, his eyes sparkling with both amusement and tears.

Relieved, Hawkeye smiled, too, sensing his temper had passed. Now, Trapper drew him close once more, and held out a fingerful of icing for him to taste. Hawkeye accepted, grateful for the gesture. Soon, he too was laughing. He knew it was irrational – he knew it was probably little more than a hysterical reaction to the emotion of the day – but somehow it felt… good. Necessary. They polished off the icing between the two of them, and then Trapper rubbed Hawkeye's face clean with the sleeve of his robe, still chuckling.

All done, he paused for a moment, gently cupping Hawkeye's face with both hands, gazing at him, his eyes glistening, a bittersweet smile on his face…

And then, just as suddenly, the moment was gone. The hilarity was over. The smile vanished. The frosting, and the joy it had brought, was gone, and Trapper's eyes filled with tears once more. After a futile attempt at holding back, he crumpled right there in Hawkeye's arms. His knees started to shake, then buckled. Hawkeye couldn't hold his weight, and he sank pitifully to the floor, his shoulders heaving, his body shaking. There was no rage this time, no raised voice, no act of furious destruction – just awful, gasping sobs that echoed through the empty apartment and shook Hawkeye to his very core. Hawkeye didn't dare move – he just stood there, stroking soothing fingers through soft curls as Trapper wrapped his arms around his waist and squeezed, as if holding on for dear life; as if Hawkeye was the only precious thing he had left in all the world.

And, as Hawkeye stood there, staring at the upended coffee table and the mess of destroyed birthday cake that adorned their kitchen wall, he realised the dreadful truth of it: _he was._

* * *

 ** _Note:_ This concludes this particular instalment, and marks a temporary hiatus in this series. As you can see, this marks something of a shift in tone to darker territory, and as such I don't want to rush the coming sections, and want to make sure I do them justice. Rest assured I have large portions of the upcoming stories already completed, but I have also just started graduate school and have a lot on my plate right now, and so it may take some time to get them finished. I am still chipping away at this series, and it will be updated again in the not too distant future.**


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